


Loving You Less Than Life, Part I

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: Loving You Less Than Life series by Kadru [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Times, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Romance, Series: The Redemption Project 57, h/c, other pairing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-03
Updated: 1999-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:25:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An angry convict returns to pay vengence on the Cascade PD, just as Blair and Jim come to grips with their attraction to each other.  But they have other issues to work out first.  Can they do it in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Loving You Less Than Life

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Summary: An angry convict returns to pay vengence on the Cascade PD, just as Blair and Jim come to grips with their attraction to each other. But they have other issues to work out first. Can they do it in time? 

Warnings: explicit m/m sex, extreme violence, language, death scenes (but not for our heroes - I couldn't bear that) 

The usual disclaimer: Jim, Blair, Simon, Naomi and the guys belong to Pet Fly and UPN. I'm making no money, and if anything, these guys keep me distracted from my freelance job and are costing me money! :-) I, however, own Jack McClairy, as he is on loan from another project so he can get his sea legs. I have borrowed lyrics from Patsy Cline's "Crazy." So whoever has the rights to her song, the same disclaimer goes to you. 

Summary: An angry convict returns to pay vengence on the Cascade PD, just as Blair and Jim come to grips with their attraction to each other. But they have other issues to work out first. Can they do it in time? 

Warnings: explicit m/m sex, extreme violence, language, death scenes (but not for our heroes - I couldn't bear that) 

* * *

Loving You Less Than Life -- part one  
By Kadru 

/I know everything about him,/ Jim thought. /I can read him like a book./ Blair walked past him in the kitchen, reaching for the kettle that had started to boil. He was trying to catch it before the whistle hurt Jim's ears. As Blair moved past, Jim could smell the shampoo, even the unscented deodorant he wore to help Jim's nose. Jim debated on telling the little genius that unscented deodorant still had a smell, but he preferred it to the heavy perfumed brand he wore before. Jim could smell the mint in his toothpaste, even the soapy smell of his laundered clothes. Above all those smells, Jim detected the familiar pheremones that he liked so well. 

When he first detected pheremones on Blair, it rattled his cage, badly. He kept Blair at arm's length for several days, barking at him and leaving to run errands. Until he noticed it on two people who were obviously in love with each other. Theirs was a much stronger, headier musk. But Blair's was light, subtle. As Jim started to settle down, he began detecting a trace amount around Simon underneath all that cigar smoke, and around others who he considered his friends. Blair's body, if not his mouth, was saying that Jim was now one of his closest friends. He felt so touched, when he realized this, sitting at his desk, while Blair was at work at the university. 

He must have been so obvious, sitting there with a dazed, dopey expression. Eventually, Simon's voice jarred him, "Hey, Jim! You okay, buddy?" 

Jim looked up at him. "Yeah, I'm fine, sir." 

"Good. I don't want you zoning when Sandburg's not here to pull you out." 

That night, Jim made dinner for the both of them, as best he could. He had taken down one of Blair's Mexican cookbooks and tried to make salsa. He knew he could at least make nachos and cheese quesedillas without destroying the kitchen. 

Blair walked in, set his laptop down along with three books. When he saw the kitchen, he couldn't help but laugh. /How can a man so anal trash a kitchen so thoroughly?/ "Jim, what are you doing?" 

"Thought I'd make dinner for us tonight, Chief." 

Blair walked into the kitchen, saw all the pots and pans laid out. "What are you making?" 

"Trying to make a salsa, here." Jim's eyes were red. Blair could tell the smell of the onions and the sharp tang of cilantro must be affecting him. Jim was just as bothered by the slight tingle that he felt on his tongue from the jalapeno peppers. He hadn't even tasted them yet, but the smell was enough. He stopped chopping tomatoes when a new scent came to him, the one he liked so much. Blair. The subtle musk of his best friend. Jim turned his attention to Blair, and saw a light expression in his eyes. He dumped the tomatoes into a bowl with the other ingredients. "Here, test this. See if it'll be okay for me." 

That night, they drank Coronas with fresh limes, watched a game on television, and afterwards, Jim let Blair get distracted by some show on the Travel Channel about native tribes somewhere. Jim didn't care. The smell of Blair was so comforting. He was saying, or at least his body was saying, that Jim was his best friend, and it wasn't verbal, which always made Jim feel uncomfortable. A few more beers and Jim would have given him a deep bear hug. 

A few months later, though, the dreams began. 

The first dream pulled him awake like a kick. He was lying in bed, feeling each thread of his cotton sheets. And there was something else, a scent. The smell of Sandburg. And warmth, a strange warm feeling of Blair's body heat rising from his skin. Then weight. Blair was on top of him, stretched out like a cat, the hair on his chest tickling Jim's bare skin. He could hear Blair's thick, curly hair scraping against his neck. And Jim's hands were all over him, squeezing the muscles of his rear, running his fingertips down his spine. Jim woke in a panic. Looking around, he realized he was alone in his bedroom. Searching, he found Blair, in the bathroom, could smell him, could hear him brushing his hair. 

Jim rolled over on his back, not knowing what to think. He had just dreamed about lying in bed with another man, with Sandburg. And he remembered, in the dream, how much he liked it. Instantly he was embarrassed and uncomfortable. Maybe if he waited in his room long enough, Sandburg would leave, go to class or something. He just didn't know if he could face him. 

"Hey, Jim!" Sandburg's voice startled him, more from discomfort than volume. "Wake up, man, or we'll be late." 

/Late? Shit, Sandburg had the next few days off./ Jim rubbed his face with his hand. They'd be working all day at the station together. Jim rolled out of bed, waited for his erection to go down, then padded down the stairs in his boxers and bare feet, avoiding eye contact with Blair as he headed for the shower. 

That day, he couldn't look Blair in the eye. He felt so awkward and self-conscious. He wasn't naive about it. He had had sex with men before, in the barracks. He knew that his memories from years ago were providing the details for his dreams. But that was a very long time ago, when he was a young kid with too many hormones and not enough outlets. Then it was a phase, for him at least. Something he had left behind. Something he outgrew. Something that wasn't supposed to come back. And behind it all, there was one man, one man he had hurt, badly, in a past experience he didn't want to repeat. Then there was Blair, whose adventures with women had become legend in the bullpen. He had to live with Blair, every day, maybe for the rest of his life. /This can't be happening again./ He couldn't be attracted to a straight man, his partner, his roommate. Every cell in his body freaked. 

The next night, he was free of dreams, and the night after that. Jim thought it was over and done with and didn't think anything about it. Then, a week later, the second dream came, then another, and another. 

After a while, Jim felt he had to talk to someone about it. Being attracted to Blair was one thing. Maybe if he worked through that, he would be free. And he wouldn't have to face something else, an event from his past that was even more personal. He made a call to his friend, Bill Oates, a psychiatrist whom Major Crimes used as a consultant on cases. Someone he felt he could trust with discretion. They met for lunch at a small restaurant far enough away from the station that the chance of other detectives being there would be slim. Even so, it wasn't until after lunch, when Jim still hadn't broached the subject, that Bill did it for him. "Okay, Jim, what's up? You didn't drag me this far away just for a Reuben." 

Jim stared at him for a while. Bill was one of his closest friends, the same age as him. He had served in the Army for a few years before going to school for his degree. He had a sharp mind that Jim respected, and a stomach for the really mean cases. 

"Come on, Jim, something's bothering you." 

"Yeah." He was silent for a moment. "I just don't know how to begin." 

"When did it first happen? What upset you first?" 

Jim fidgeted with his hands before saying, "I keep having these dreams." 

"What kind of dreams?" When Jim didn't answer, Bill offered, "Nightmares?" 

"No, not quite." 

"Well?" 

"I keep having dreams . . . about sex." 

"And this bothers you?" Bill said with a laugh. 

"It's the person I keep dreaming about that bothers me." 

"Let me guess. It's your partner." Watching Jim squirm uncomfortably in his seat told Bill he had the right answer. 

"How did you--" 

"I'm often amazed by how many times you detectives pull me aside to tell me these things." 

"This happens to other guys?" 

"Yeah." Bill took a sip of his coffee. 

"Why?" 

"Your partner's your best friend. The two of you face death together. Of course you'd start to dream about him this way." Bill could tell Jim still wasn't comforted. "Okay, Jim, tell me, do you have other dreams about him?" 

"Well, yeah." 

"Do these dreams bother you, too?" 

"Sometimes." 

"Describe them." 

"Well, sometimes I dream that we're together, like a couple. Like I'm in the shower, and he's at the sink, shaving. Or we're buying stuff together." 

"You like those dreams, don't you?" 

Jim blushed, then fidgeted more with his hands. 

"Jim, those dreams just say you love your partner." 

"I knew it," he said, defeated. 

"No, not like that. God, you cops kill me. He's your best friend. What's wrong with loving him?. . . Jim, if it makes you feel any better, it happens a lot to everyone, but I guess it only bothers men, because we think it's foolish to say we love another guy. But that's all it is. I mean, you do love the guy, don't you?" 

"Yeah, I guess so. But not in that way." 

Bill just sighed. "Don't let the dreams bother you. In a way, Freud was right when he interpreted most dreams sexually, only in a different light. If our bodies can only think about sex, then that's all we have to talk with. Your brain is just using sexual images to portray what the heart feels." 

Jim seemed to relax a little. 

Bill added, "So, to paraphrase the great Gilda Radner, sometimes a penis is just a banana." 

* * *

Marshal Aigle stared at the parole board in front of him. His face was a complete mask. He had taken so much and stuffed it inside his soul. Like the faces of the Cascade police who had grabbed him that night he had finished teaching his girl a lesson for trading her favors to his friends. He had beaten her pretty raw. He should have killed her, but something said she would keep quiet. He shouldn't have trusted that voice, the last time he ever listened to his conscience. And she had squealed to the cops, and they came for him, found his knuckles still blue. /Damn her. But damn them more, preaching over me about how to treat a woman, like any of those damn cops in their stiff suits know any better./ Then they kicked the shit out of him, and not a damn thing was done about that. 

The prisoner stared at them with a mask . . . of peace. One he had cultivated while in prison, his only hope of getting parole early. While the guards smacked him around. While his fellow prisoners pushed him down on his knees to take their cocks in his mouth to suck, while he took it up the ass, he learned to fix that mask on so tight that no one could see how much hate and rage he had processed inside him. He would serve it all back, cold. /Force feed all those goddamn cops who treated me like shit for what was my god-given right./ He would take out as many cops as he could. And this time, he wouldn't get caught. He wouldn't get caught. 

Each night, before his cell mate took his body and laid it across the bed to use, Marshall would read the Cascade newspapers to notice names of police officers. The name that came up the most -- Detective James Ellison. Major Crimes. Marshal outlined his attack. What he would need to do to take out the most cops before he would have to move on. He had to take it slow. He had to be careful. And he had to take the strongest, smartest cop out first. With each high-level cop down, the ones below him would be less likely to catch him. 

As he heard the parole board grant his parole, Marshal first ran his hands over his short, cropped black hair, then over this black eyes, to the small goatee and mustache that colored his pale white face. Yes, he was free. The hunt would begin. And the entire time, his expression of serenity remained. 

* * *

Winter came through Cascade. At one point, in the middle of the night, Jim woke up because something had keyed up his hearing. Maybe it was the wind. He crawled out of bed -- the apartment was a little chilly, but he didn't mind. Walking over to the window, he watched for the wind outside, trying to pick up little clues about it. He remembered Blair reading to him a passage from a book, he couldn't remember the title, where some guy had claimed that if you looked hard enough, you could see the wind -- by seeing the particles of dust being blown about. It had excited Blair, because it meant maybe Jim could tell wind direction by sight alone. Jim thought it was a little much. But standing there, in the middle of the night, he stared down at the street below, trying to pick out leaves and trash in the city lights. 

Just as he had picked out the wind swirling in an eddy, something distracted him. A smell. A very strong, musky smell. Turning to catch a better whiff, Jim recognized it as Blair, as Blair's pheremones, but it wasn't the same, subtle scent of friendship. It was much stronger. It was lust. But Jim didn't remember hearing Blair bring in a girl. Surely he would have sensed that. 

The thought that someone could have entered his loft without him noticing it unnerved him. He had to check this out. He walked toward the stairs, listening. Blair's heartbeat was quick, as was his breathing. But he couldn't hear the bed creak, not as much as he would have expected. And there was only a slight rustle of sheets. Crossing the room, his ears picking up every little sound, he stopped dead in his tracks when he heard Blair's voice whisper, "Jim." 

Jim wasn't sure how long he stood there, by the couch. The realization struck him full force. Sandburg was having a dream, a sex dream, about him. His partner. Jim couldn't help but smile, thinking of Bill Oates' advice. Blair loved him, too. Blair loved him. His best friend loved him. Grinning, shaking his head a little as he walked up the stairs, Jim felt more alive than he had in a long time. He felt . . . validated . . . to use one of Blair's words. He felt valued, wanted. Jim slipped easily into a comfortable sleep. 

The next morning though, it was very obvious that Sandburg was uncomfortable. He wouldn't make eye contact. He remained silent. In the kitchen, he twisted his body in awkward contortions to avoid brushing up against Jim. Jim couldn't help but smile, wondering if he was that obvious when he first dreamed about Blair. Still, he was so happy, he wanted to run off with his guide, to go hiking, or maybe a ball game, something with his buddy. When he patted him on the shoulder, Jim felt Blair's muscles jerk under his skin, and the sharp smell of adrenalin. Blair was afraid. Blair was not handling this. Suddenly, Jim felt a wave of pity. He had been there, and not that long ago. He gave Blair the space he needed to sort out his thoughts, and eventually, things returned to normal. 

From December, into January, the holiday season relaxed them both. Jim wasn't much for Christmas, but he liked seeing Blair light his menorah, liked knowing that Blair was sharing it with him. He went with Blair to a holiday function at the university. They were best friends again. And although he could still sense when Blair had a dream about him, he kept it to himself, as he was having them, too. 

The winter was good for them. They spent most nights together, watching games, drinking beers. He endured Sandburg's constant ramblings, and Blair endured Jim's silences and moods. Jim's conscious felt comfortable with his dreams, but his subconscious was only flamed by the knowledge that Blair was dreaming of him, too. Each night, Jim's dreams became more detailed, more passionate. And each morning, he found it harder and harder not to take Blair into his arms and cover him. At his desk in the bullpen while Blair was away teaching, Jim found himself obsessed with Blair's not being there. Then a face would appear in his memory, a face he had destroyed years and years ago, when he was young and naive. Could he make that face appear on Blair one day? Hurt him just as badly? Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he grabbed for the rationalization that he chanted daily -- Bill Oates' advice, that he just loved Blair as a friend, and this was what it was like -- a deep friendship like theirs. No sex. No pain. 

* * *

Marshal called on his first contact to obtain supplies. He needed some sort of distraction. He had to find which officer was Jim Ellison. Had to see him. Then he would follow him, track him down. He would get him first. 

He needed a rifle, with a scope. He had to take him out from a distance. But this cop was good. No other sniper had ever come near him. He would have to play his cards close and mean, and he wouldn't get many opportunities. He at least had surprise in his favor. 

* * *

Then, in March, Jim noticed a change in mood in Blair. It wasn't a smell, or a sound, it was a personality change, something that Jim wasn't too sure about. He seemed happier, more energetic, if that was possible. Jim assumed that Blair was figuring out their friendship, too, and thought nothing more about it, but he did notice that Blair was out more often. He could smell cologne and cigarettes, guessed that he was hanging out with guys his own age. /Wanting to prove himself, maybe./ 

One Saturday, Blair was in his room, getting dressed for a date. Jim opened a beer, and settled down on the sofa for a night of tv when he heard a knock at the door. As Jim crossed the floor, he could smell cologne instead of perfume, knew it was a man before he even opened it. On the other side of the door, though, was a tall man, Jim's height, with dark, tanned skin, light green eyes, sunburned, reddish-brown hair that hung in waves, brushed behind his ears, to his shoulders. He was older than Blair, but younger than Jim. His build was muscled but lean, like Blair. "Hi," he said in a noticeable Australian accent. "You must be Jim." 

"Yeah." 

"Blair's told me a lot about you." He held out his hand, "I'm Jack McClairy." His handshake was firm, and his hands were rough. "Is Blair ready?" 

"Almost." Jim was a little flustered, and he didn't know why. "Come in. Hey, Blair!" 

"What?" 

"Jack's here." 

"Jack!" Blair stumbled out of the bathroom. His jeans were tight, and the tails of his flannel shirt were still hanging out from under the rim of his wool sweater. "I wasn't expecting you for a while." 

Then Jim sensed it. Pheremones. Heavier than he had ever smelled from Blair. And another scent, coming from Jack. He stood there between them, in a daze, his mouth open as he realized what he was sensing. And Blair realized it. The sharp tang of fear came into Jim's nose, and he turned to Blair, who was obviously rattled, tying his shoes in a rapid pace and grabbing his coat. "Come on, Jack, I don't want to be late." 

"Nonsense. I got here early. We've got plenty of time." Then he turned to Jim. "Blair says you were in Peru for a while." 

"Uh . . . yeah." 

"I just got back from a few months in Guyana. I'd love to sit down and swap stories." 

"Sure." 

Blair interrupted, pulling Jack by the elbow. "Maybe later. Let's go." 

Jim's mind was racing, and he noticed Blair more than anything else. He was just moments away from a panic attack, his heartbeat racing, his breath stopping short. /Don't fuck this up, Jim. He's your best friend. You're here to protect him. Protect him, Jim!/ Just as they were about to leave, Jim called out, "Hey, Chief!" Blair turned around with a look of panic in his eyes. "Have a good time." Then he smiled. 

Blair stared at him for a few seconds, and his heart beat slowed down a little. "Sure." He continued to look into Jim's blue eyes, and he noticed, if Jim didn't, the way his mouth would turn down slightly in a closed smile when he was trying to hide an insult that stung. "Uhm, Jim, we'll talk about it when I get back." 

Jim just shrugged, good naturedly. "If you want." Jim turned and walked back to the couch, not watching as Blair closed the door behind him. 

That night, Jim watched the players move the ball from one net to the next, not even registering each score. The volume was down, as usual -- the high-pitched squeak of rubber soles against the basketball court always made him wince. Tonight, his mind was too far away. /So, Sandburg's gay./ He at first thought Blair was gay when he first met him, but Sandburg's constant parade of women convinced him otherwise. /And he's having sex with Jack./ Jim was bothered, upset. He knew it. /But why?/ He and Sandburg weren't a couple. They were best friends. He always thought Blair was capable of loving another guy, since he first met him. Blair could sleep with anyone he wanted to. Still, Jim was upset. /Maybe I'm jealous. I mean, I know he dreams of sleeping with me./ He wasn't used to searching his feelings -- felt lost. "I need my guide," he said out loud, as a joke. 

Then it wasn't funny. Jim realized what was wrong. His feelings were hurt. 

Now Jim started pacing. /Why? Why are my feelings hurt? Because Blair didn't tell me? Blair never tells me about his dates -- I just always find out, like now. So what, what was the problem here? Am I jealous?/ Jim took a heavy gulp of beer. He was jealous. /Of what?/ Blair was still his best friend. /Or was he? Why didn't he tell me? It was so obvious he loved this guy. I thought he saw me as his best friend. Didn't he trust me?/ Still, Jim didn't feel sure about his ramblings. He avoided one spot, an area he wasn't brave enough to touch, that he was in love with Blair, really in love with Blair /like last time/ and that it hurt to see him with another man. A woman, yes, that didn't bother him. But if Blair wanted another man, what was wrong with him? He was having dreams about him. He knew that. /What was wrong with me?/ 

Sandburg didn't come home that night. Jim was glad of it, because he wasn't sure what he wanted to say yet. It wasn't until Sunday, as Jim was making himself a quick dinner, that Blair walked in, cautiously. "Jim?" he whispered, in a voice only the sentinel could hear. 

"I'm in the kitchen." 

"Oh." Blair stepped closer, unsure. 

"I'm making a grilled cheese sandwich. You want one?" 

"Sure." Blair sat down at the table, and Jim handed him a plate with the sandwich he had just fixed for himself. As he began making another sandwich, Sandburg watched him, trying to think of what to say. Finally, he tried, "I guess you know what's going on." 

Jim didn't answer at first. He listened to the spatter of butter in the frying pan. Smelled the different brand of shampoo that he must have borrowed from Jack. "Chief, I guess I should have told you this earlier. I just didn't want you to feel uncomfortable around me." 

Blair's mind started to race. "What?" 

"I . . . I can't just turn my senses off completely around you. I can hear your heart rate, blood pressure, that sort of thing." 

"I know that." 

"And I can smell things, too." 

"Yeah, you've told me that." 

"Chief, I can smell your pheremones." 

"Oh. I guess I didn't think about that." 

Jim flipped the sandwich over to brown on the other side. "I just didn't want you to feel too uncomfortable around me. I wanted to give you some sense of privacy." Jim handed Blair a beer, transfered his sandwich to a plate, then sat down beside him at the table. To break the silence, Jim said, "So, you like Jack?" 

"I, like, guess you would know." Blair's voice was a little sharp. 

"Chief, I'm sorry. It's something I can't help." His tone of voice was new to Blair, almost vulnerable. Blair's chest tightened a little, with both guilt and some love. And Jim could sense it, the smell of his friendship, only this time, it was a little bittersweet. 

"Yeah," Blair began, "I like him. Does that bother you? Do you want me to move out?" 

"Oh, Chief, give me a little credit. I'm not some nazi. You're my best friend, for God's sake." Blair didn't say anything, still looking a little sheepish. "I just wish you had told me." 

"I didn't know how to bring it up. I thought you would throw me out. I mean, you don't seem that comfortable around that kind of stuff, anyway." 

"What do you mean?" 

"You don't really like gay people." 

"I thought you were gay, when we first met." 

"Me? Why?" 

"The long hair, the earrings. The nipple ring." 

"Jim. Come on." 

"What? I was right, wasn't I?" 

"For one, that's a stereotype. And for another, I'm . . . bi . . . I guess." 

"I don't care if you're bi or not. That's not the point." 

"And what is?" 

"The point, Chief, is that I thought you were gay at first and I was fine with it then. I'm still fine with it." 

"You sure?" 

"Yes, I'm sure." His temper was starting to show, and Jim wasn't sure why. 

"Okay, okay, big guy. Just checking." 

"And what's with the 'I guess I'm bi' stuff?" 

Blair didn't answer at first. "Jim, I . . ." 

"What? Spit it out." 

"Jack's the first guy I've ever been with." 

Jim felt his heart wrench, hard. "Huh?" 

"I know. I know. It just . . . happened one day. I started having these dreams and--" 

"Dreams?" Jim had to force his tongue to work, to get the word out. 

"Yeah. I kept having dreams about . . . a guy . . ." 

"What guy?" 

"Just some guy. You wouldn't know him." 

Jim accepted the lie, if only to keep the conversation going, even if the only thing he could feel was a crushing sensation in his lungs. "So what happened?" 

"I don't know. I just couldn't stop thinking about it. So finally I just said, 'Blair, you're an adult. Go do something about it. Give it a try. Just once. Then freak out if it's something you like.'" 

"Are you . . . freaking out?" 

Blair forced back a sudden laugh, then admitted, "Yeah." 

"This Jack guy, is he the one you were dreaming about?" Jim asked. 

"No." 

"Why didn't you ask the guy you were dreaming about." 

Blair looked at him hard, as if he could tell Jim was leading him. "Because he's straight, and it would ruin what friendship we've been able to develop." 

Jim swallowed hard After a few bites, he asked, "So this Jack guy, you like him?" 

Blair drank from the beer bottle, then answered, "Yeah. I really do." 

"What does he do?" 

"He's an anthropologist. He's been everywhere. He's done everything." 

"What's he doing here?" 

"He lectures sometimes at U-Dubb. We met at a lecture." 

"And you . . . like this." 

Blair dropped his face in his hands. "Oh, God, Jim, I don't know what to do." His confusion was real; Jim could smell it. Even knowing that Blair was attracted to this other guy, Jim could feel this pulling in his chest to wrap his arms around Blair, to comfort him. To claim him. But he couldn't. Couldn't step in when Blair was confused. Couldn't step in to take Blair from Jack. Couldn't risk that, again. Not after what he had done, years and years ago. The realization of it, of this memory that he wanted to forget, kept him still as he watch Blair. "I've never done anything like this before. And I was so afraid you'd freak out about this." 

"Jack seems like a good guy." 

"I think you'd like him." 

"So," Jim said, finishing off his sandwich, not wanting to hear any more of it, "when do I get to swap jungle stories with him?" 

"You really want to get together with . . . us?" 

Jim stood over the sink for a moment, then answered, "Yeah, I guess." He heard nothing but the beating of his own heart, could only feel his fingers gripping the edge of the sink. Blair took him by surprise by touching his shoulder. 

"Thanks, Jim, for being cool about this. You don't know how much this means to me." 

Jim pulled his head back, wanting to scream into the ceiling, but he stopped short. Even so, Blair recognized Jim's tight lips and strained chin, and he pulled his hand away. 

* * *

Even after meeting Jack, and having drinks with him, Jim wasn't comforted. In fact, watching Blair and Jack together started hurting even more. He couldn't help it. Jack was unforgivably . . . perfect. He was sincerely interested in Jim's trips to Peru. And when he asked questions in that incredibly charming Australian accent, they were so specific, and practical, that Jim felt very comfortable answering them. Jack made him feel like an expert on the subject of Peru, and Blair, God help him, made him feel like a test subject. Then Jack would start to explain something about a tribe he had come across, and in telling the story, he started to include Jim in it, asking his opinion, before spouting into interpretation the way Blair did. Not to mention that he was so handsome, with his sharp green eyes and angled face, the tanned skin of a well-traveled soul. If Jim wasn't more careful, he was going to fall in love, too. 

And just when he would think that, Jack would turn to Blair, and say something so kind, and passionate, that Blair would melt into a quivering heap of puppy eyes and smiles. And each time that happened, Jim felt the most bitter pain in his heart, the same pain he had felt when Carolyn left him. The same bitter pain that forced him to repress that one ugly time, when he had turned love down because he was a coward. Jim began to bow out of more and more nights with them. 

Then, one night, Jim came back home when a stake-out had been called off. He didn't think to call the loft to see if Sandburg was there, but as he climbed the steps, he caught a wiff of Jack's cologne. Jim stood there, before the door, listening with his sentinel hearing. 

"So, love," he heard Jack's intoxicating voice, "when does Jim get back?" 

"He's on a stake-out. I don't expect him back until late." 

"Good." Then Jim heard the zing of Blair's hair in Jack's rough hands. "I can't keep my hands off your hair." 

"Jim wants me to cut it short." 

"He's a fool, love. If he ever puts his face back here, behind your neck," the voice grew muffled, so Jim had to strain, "he would know how good this feels." Jim heard Jack kiss Blair on the neck. "All this hair brushing on your face. Mmmm." The scent of pheremones covered Jack's cologne, and their heartbeats were like thunder, followed by the loud rasp of their clothes against the sofa as they twisted together, kissing hard enough for Jim to hear. There was a rustle of cloth, then the hush of skin against skin. "Oh, love, your chest. I can't get enough of it. The hair. And the smooth skin here." Jim heard his finger brush against Blair's skin, and the gasp of his breath. 

"Not there. I'm ticklish there." 

"Oh, I know, love, I know." 

"Stop it, Jack!" He heard peals of laughter from both of them and the jostling of their bodies. It was only the sharp ache in Jim's chest that kept him from zoning out. "Please!" Then Jim heard the pop of the buttons on someone's jeans, and then the zipper of another's. He heard their clothes fall on a heap. "Jim would be pissed that we didn't pick up our clothes. House rules." 

"I think he'd be more pissed that I laid you on his sofa. Come on." Jim heard them stand. "Let's go to your bed." Their naked feet padded on the wooden floor, followed by the heavy creak of Blair's bed. Jim didn't want to listen anymore, to the suction of their kiss and to Blair's cries as Jack sucked on his cock. He tried to distract himself, think about the happiness for his friend, but he couldn't stand it. He wanted Blair, he wanted to hear those sounds coming from his guide because he was the one doing it. Pulling himself up from this envy, he heard Jack's voice again, as soothing as Blair's had ever been. 

"Relax, love, relax. It's just my finger." Then a dry kiss on Blair's neck. "Only a finger. Can you feel it? Does it hurt? Just relax, I don't want this to hurt. I'd never hurt you, love. . . . Do you feel that?" Blair let out a sharp moan. "There it is. There's the button. Mmmmm. Relax, baby. There, it's another finger. I'll go slow. In it goes. In. Out. Oh, love, relax, feel how good it feels. Mmmm." Another dry kiss. Jim could hear Blair squirming on the mattress. "And here's another finger. Okay? Are you okay? Good, baby, good. Feels so good. In. Out. In. Out." 

"Jack!" 

"Tell me when you're ready. When it doesn't hurt any more." 

"I'm ready." 

"Are you sure?" 

"I want to feel you, Jack. . . . inside me." 

"Okay, love. Here, use your fingers on yourself while I slip on a rubber. Okay? Keep it relaxed." Jim heard the tear of the foil, then a moment of silence. "Okay, you ready, love?" 

"God, yes." 

"Roll over on your side, love. That's it. Lift up your leg. Good. Can you feel it? I'm going to push a little. You just push out. That's it." 

"Jack!" 

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" 

"Feel's good." 

"Here it comes, a little more." 

"Jack! Jack! Jack!" 

"I'm going slow. Here, push back on me." 

"Oh yes!" 

"Love, you're so tight. So tight. It feels like heaven." 

"Jack, I love you, so much." 

"I love you, babe. Love you so much." 

Jim couldn't take it anymore. He found himself bolting away from the door, into the street, scrambling into his truck. Once inside, he pounded his head against the steering wheel, until he felt the taps on his leg, of his tears. Touching his face, he felt how wet his cheeks were, and that he was crying hard, sobbing. "God damn it," he moaned softly to himself. "Oh, god damn it." 

* * *

Marshal carefully began assembling the bomb. Just a small one. Enough to get the city's attention. And to avoid the mistakes that the others had made when building a bomb, he kept it simple. To items that anyone could purchase. And when an item was controlled, when the store required receipts, Marshal would get them black-market. 

* * *

[Continued in part two](lovingyou_a.html).


	2. Chapter 2

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Loving You Less Than Life

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Disclaimer and notes can be found in part one. 

* * *

Loving You Less Than Life -- part two  
By Kadru 

Jim was falling apart inside. He knew it. Each day he saw Blair and Jack together, he knew he wanted to have what they had, that he was deluding himself with Bill's analytical advice, that he did not have the courage to say he was in love with his partner and wanted to take him, as he had taken him in his dreams. He was in love, /say it/, with another man. He wanted to fuck him, yes. He knew he was in love with Blair. For months now, he had been trying to avoid it. Now, he knew it was impossible. /There, I'm in love with Blair Sandburg./ 

And before him lay another hurdle. What he had done to another man years ago. More often, his thoughts kept going back to his old military days, to nights in the barracks. Jim closed his eyes and propped his head against the cold glass window. 

Those nights, so many years ago, when he felt that hard, blond body squirm underneath him. So tight around his cock as he fucked him. So much hard muscle and sweat. And then, for himself, bent down, opening himself for that same probing, invasive twitching. With the most tender, experimental kisses. Mixed with the fear, the gut-wrenching fear of being caught, and of seeing two other guys caught. Beaten badly in the barracks. Only to be court-martialed, discharged, forced to give up names of others they suspected. Jim prayed each night that his name wouldn't be called. When it was over, and they were passed over, Jim couldn't take it anymore. 

And for almost 20 years, Jim had kept his brain from remembering that one night. That one scene. Of the crushed look in his lover's face, when Jim said, "No more." 

Jim had died that night. He never looked at another man again. From fear of reprisal, yes. More from anguish and guilt for destroying the life of the man he loved, /yes goddamn it Jim you were in love with that man and you fucked him, fucked him. Is that what you want to do to Blair? Fuck him? Hurt him? Destroy him like you destroyed Tom?/ 

Jim looked up to stare into the Cascade Mountains from the station's windows. He realized he couldn't hide from this, this desire to be with Blair. He had to face it. And facing it required him to face one more thing. Face what he had hoped he would never have to pay for. 

"I will go. I will pay for this." 

The drive to the monastery took most of the day. Jim walked around for a while, until he found a monk working in one of the gardens. The April weather had stirred all of the plants in the garden to bloom, and several were working the grounds. Jim approached a monk, asked him a name, and the monk pointed toward a solitary worker who was bent over an iris bed, pulling up weeds. 

Jim walked up on the busy monk, surprised at how quietly the soft grass was muffling his footsteps. Even as he came closer, the monk answered, "Yes?" /Had he heard my feet on the grass?/ 

"Tom?" 

The monk turned around, then looked up at Jim. Wearing brown robes, he was Jim's age, and just as muscled. His blond hair was thinning at the crown like a natural tonsure. He placed his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Jim could clearly hear him gasp. 

"You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"Have I?" the monk asked, almost afraid. 

"No." 

"Jim? Jim Ellison?" 

Jim knelt down to him, sitting on his ankles. 

"Jim, I. . . I thought you were dead. You were . . . shot down . . . over Peru." 

"Yeah. I lived there for a while before they found me." 

"I . . . I thought you were dead." They stared at each other for a while, until Tom dropped his trowel aside and hugged Jim, patting him on the back. Jim resisted for a second, then fell tightly into Tom's arms. "Oh, my friend," Tom began, "I thought about you, a lot, when I was lost. I thought you were dead. And each day, I thought I would be, too. That I would see you again, but not in this world. Not in this world. Oh, thank God you're alive. Thank You, God. Thank You, again." Tom gripped him for several minutes before pulling away, his eyes wet with tears. 

"I'm sorry, Tom, for what it's worth." 

"Don't Jim--" 

"I didn't realize what I did to you." 

"Jim, please, that was ages ago." 

"Was it? Tom, when you started volunteering for every dangerous mission that came up, all I could do was blame myself." 

"Good," Tom said, but his voice was still good-natured. "That's what I wanted you to feel." 

"And I never saw you again." 

Tom looked down at the grass. "Well, that is what you wanted, Jim. You even said so." 

"Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry." 

"No, I'm sorry. I've gotten over it. I got over it years ago. And now look at me. Look what I'm doing. I'm dragging you through it, and for what? Pride." 

"When I heard you were shot down in Asia, I knew it was my fault." 

"How did you know about that? I thought you were in Peru?" 

"I read about it, when I got back," Jim said. "What happened to you, that is. I was trying to look you up. And then one of our friends called me, when they found you. I wanted to see you then, to talk some sense into you." 

"And you didn't?" 

"Well, then I heard that you came here. Became a monk. I thought you might not want to see me then, considering what we had done." 

"Oh, no, Jim, it wasn't a bad thing that brought me here." Tom sat down fully onto the grass, and Jim fell down with him. "When . . . when did you come back, from Peru?" 

"Not long after you were shot down in Irian Jaya. We all thought you were dead." 

"Well, I came pretty close. The rebels who shot down our chopper left us for dead. I was found by a tribe of the Yali. For some reason, they chose not to eat me." Tom smiled. "I lived there for a few years before I decided get to a village." Tom stood up. "And then, when I got back, the miracle occurred." 

"Miracle?" 

"I could see just how beautiful this world was. Everything. Like I had opened up like a flower. The sights, the smells, the sounds. Everything I had taken for granted after you . . ." Tom chose not to finish. "I just wanted to leave the rest of the world to itself. God had given me a gift, and it brought me peace." 

Jim just nodded. He wished he had gotten the same miracle when he had gotten back. Instead, he had been cursed with powerful senses that he had to wrestle with every day. Zone-outs. Bursts of sensory perceptions that hurt and overwhelmed. 

"Jim?" 

"Hmm?" 

"How long have you know I was here?" 

"Two years." 

"And you never came to see me? We were so close . . . I mean to say, we were in the same town." 

"Like I said, I thought you came here to get away from what happened." 

"From my old lover who dumped me, you mean? Or from sin?" Jim stared at him, not sure how to answer. "Come on," Tom reached for his hand. "Let's go into the meditation garden. It always helps me to focus." Jim let his old friend lead him into an enclosed garden. The heat of his hand felt so right, after so many years. At night, in the darkened barracks, they had held each other's hand in secret. A fountain bubbled in the center of the courtyard garden, and lilacs bloomed in the corners, with arbors of wisteria, covering the whole area with a heady scent. "I find it a little powerful in spring, but I can focus on the sound of the water to ward off the scent." Jim found himself dialing down his sense of smell, but tried to listen to the bubbling noise. Tom was right. The bubbling water did help with the smell. Jim arched an eyebrow, but decided the lover comment was more important. 

"So, do you think we were that . . . lovers?" 

Tom smiled slightly as he sat down at the edge of the fountain. "Probably not the right word to use. We were just scared kids. Still, I guess we were in love. I was definitely in love with you." 

"I think I was too scared to call it love." 

"Yeah, you were. It was a little intense for a couple of 18 year olds. Still, I think I loved you then. I think I love you now." 

Jim looked at him, a little uncomfortable. "Is that one of the reasons you came here?" 

"No, nothing like that. No confused notion of sin brought me here. It was a miracle that turned me here, nothing less." Tom dragged his finger through the cold water, watching the orange carp swim to the surface to nibble at his fingertip. "And you, what brought you here?" 

"I felt it had been too long." 

"Seeing me? Yes. I would have liked to have known you were still alive." 

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you thought I was dead. I thought you knew I was in Cascade. It was pretty much common knowledge." 

"Jim, I'm in seclusion, remember," Tom joked. "Was that it?" Tom leaned over and whispered, "I can tell by your heartbeat, and your blood pressure, that something else is troubling you." 

/Heartbeats?/ "Tom, I'm in love," Jim blurted out, then felt incredibly embarrassed that he had lost his self-control. 

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" 

"With another man." 

"So?" 

"So? You're not . . ." 

"You're surprised that I don't call down the wrath of God on you?" Tom studied his old friend. "Jim, is that why you came? Did you think I had cast myself into this place to hide from my feelings? Did you think that I would act as your whip, to chastise you?" 

Again, Jim didn't have an answer. And then Tom added, "Or did you think I was going to beat the living crap out of you, for turning me down a hundred years ago and then jumping into bed with some other guy?" 

Jim jumped up from his seat and started pacing. "Why? Why is it happening again? Tom, I'm just going to hurt this guy like I did you. He'll just run off to some jungle and not take care of himself and die and then I've got to go through what I did to you all over again. And it's not like Blair's got the sense and training that you and I had to live through something like that." 

Tom breathed in deeply. "Ah, just when you think you've been overwhelmed by the flowers, you can smell them all over again." He looked at Jim, then reached for his hand to pull him down again. "Jim, our nights together, in the barracks, in the showers, I'm not ashamed of them. They were beautiful things. We were being taught how to kill, and at night, we were trying to find a way to live. We shouldn't be ashamed. Not of that. We should be ashamed that we let others convince us to separate." 

"And now?" 

"What, that just because we were in basic training, it was okay then and not now?" Tom looked at the other flowers in the garden. "Look at the lilac blooms, over there. See how they are purple in the center, with a soft lavender edge? Now, scan back a little, and take the whole shrub in view. See how the two colors mix with the green leaves, and the blue of the sky? Doesn't it soothe your soul to see that?" Jim fell into the vision, was starting to zone, when Tom pulled at the hair on his arm. "But not too hard." When he was convinced Jim was back to full concentration, Tom continued, "You see Jim, God talks to us in two different ways -- through beauty, and love. There is too much hate in this world, too much anger, and deceit, and lying. If you are in love with another man, then that is a good thing. I only wish I had come to see this when we were younger. Things would have been much different, for the both of us." 

Jim didn't answer. He remember, though, those nights in the barracks, how he had felt something like love for Tom. "I was too scared, then. I couldn't handle it. And now, all these years later, I don't know if I can handle it still." 

Tom smirked. "Maybe you're right. But I think I was lucky. I didn't know this about love, and so God gave me a miracle." 

"A miracle?" 

"Yes, he gave me a gift, so that I could see the beauty. Once you discover beauty, the love follows. And all our lives are cursed by one thing, that we can't see beauty in everything. We think it has to be in big flowers and grand mountains. But it's there, in the smallest places. Here, look at this muck under this lilypad." Tom reached into the fountain and lifted the round, wet leaf. Beneath it were tiny dots of rust colored algae. "Watch what happens when you hold it up to the light. See how it sparkles? And if you look closely, the individual cells are perfectly shaped. And once you find it, the beauty in something, the love follows soon after. I can see, I can hear, I can smell and taste beauty in everything. It's all one great symphony." 

"Tom, how can you see the cells? How can you see the lilac? How can you read my heartbeats and my blood pressure?" 

"I'm telling you, it was the miracle. Jim, when I got back, something started happening to me. By the time they released me, I came straight here. Jim, I could see." Tom's face was glowing. "I could see everything. And I could hear everything, birds, children, even the worms in the ground. And the smells, the wonderful smells. Jim, this world is such a beautiful place. So I came here, because of you, actually. I knew you were from here. I thought it was a gift from God, to replace you. So I came to your home. To find some part of you that I loved, thinking you were dead and I'd never be able to tell you that I forgive you." 

Jim stared into the face of his old lover, a little more tired, a little more wrinkled, but still those same blue eyes he had fallen in love with so long ago. The sweet expression in Jim's face was enough for Tom to say again, "Jim. I forgive you." 

Jim just smiled. He stood up beside Tom. Pointing to an open window, he said, "There, through that third window, on the bookshelf, the first book on the left, it says, City of God, by Saint AUH-gustine." 

"Saint A-GUStine," Tom corrected. "Saint AUH-gustine is a town in Florida." Then he realized what had happened and Tom shot him a look of surprise. 

"And in the kitchen. Someone, a man, is cutting something." Jim closed his eyes. "Wait, I can smell it. It's onions. Green onions." 

"You? You have it, too?" 

Jim smiled again. "I didn't come here for that. But it's a nice surprise, anyway." 

"You, you have the same miracle?" 

"Only, I don't really call it a miracle, but yes, I have it." 

Tom hugged him, tightly. "I don't know what to say. I almost don't believe it." Tom shook his head. "You've made me a very happy man, Jim. You're alive, and you understand this gift. And I woke up this morning thinking the highlight of my day would be Brother Joseph's potatoes and onions." 

Jim asked him, "Do you have a guide?" 

"A guide?" 

"Someone to watch your back, who keeps you from zoning out?" 

"What is zoning out?" 

"When you focus so intently on one sensation that you sort of freeze, go autistic." 

"At first, yes, but one of the brothers here just told me to trust God, that He would bring me out of it. And He does. Since I learned this trust, I haven't had any problems." 

"Trust, huh?" 

"You said you had a . . . guide?" 

"Yes. Blair Sandburg. He's an anthropologist who tracked me down." 

"Do you trust him?" 

"With my life." 

"Well, there you have it. I trust God. You trust Blair Sandburg." Then Tom leaned forward, to whisper so that only the sentinel could here. "To tell the truth, I don't think God has much to do with it. I just trust myself." Tom winked at Jim, then looked up at the sky. "Sorry, Big Guy. Just had to tell the truth." Then he looked back, still smiling, "And you're in love." Tom was simply glowing. 

Only Jim didn't feel like glowing when he thought of Blair. "Well, yes, for what it's worth." 

"For what it's worth? What's wrong?" 

"Well, for one thing, you were supposed to tell me it was wrong and that I should erase all thoughts of sleeping with my partner." 

"Oh. Partner? Business?" 

"Police. I'm a detective." 

"A detective. I see now why you have the gift." 

"What, so I can catch bad guys?" Tom only smiled at him but didn't interrupt. "Yes, I'm in love with my partner, I guess. But, Tom, he's in love with someone else." 

"Oh, I see. Do you . . . like this someone else?" 

"I think he's good for Blair." 

"Blair, is it? Well, then you should be happy for Blair. You should celebrate the fact that he has found love, too." Tom grew silent. "Jim, did you say 'he'?" Jim nodded. "Oh. I see." Tom thought for a while. "I know it hurts, knowing that he doesn't love you the same way. Trust me, I've been there." He paused to let Jim get the full meaning. "It helps if you realize that the person you love is happy. That's what we have to do when we love someone. Make sure they're happy. If they aren't happy with us, then we need to let go. And that, my friend, is easier said than done." 

* * *

Marshal careful placed the bomb in the secluded alley. The bait was set. He just needed to wait until tomorrow for it to detonate. And when it goes, and the police come, Marshal would take names and kick ass later. 

* * *

When Blair came home, he saw a vase on the table, and inside it, a single branch of lilac. Even Blair could smell it. "Jim?" 

"Yeah?" Jim stepped down from his upstairs bedroom. "What's up, Chief?" 

"Uhm, what's with the flower?" 

"A friend gave it to me." 

"A friend?" 

"Yeah, one of my old Army buddies. I finally tracked him down. Well, I knew where he was, I just didn't have the nerve to go see him." 

"And he gave you a flower? What is he, Hari-Krishna?" 

"No, Franciscan." 

"Get out." Then Blair recognized the book in Jim's hand. "Where did you get that?" 

"It's one of your's." 

"Yeah, I know it's one of mine. Why would you want to read one of my books?" 

"I had seen it before. Is this the only book you have on monasticism?" 

"Yeah. It's kind of dry, though." 

Jim looked at it, then said, with the most honest tone, "Aren't they all?" 

Blair couldn't help but laugh at that. He sat down at the table, pointed to the chair across from him, and said, "Okay, big guy, sit down. What's going on with you?" 

Jim sat down, saying, "Nothing's wrong. I just found an old friend, that's all. I'm trying to figure out what makes him tick." 

"You're not going to quit the force? Sell daisies in the SeaTac airport?" 

Jim just shook his head. "Not anytime soon." 

"So what's up? I can't believe Jim Ellison is, like, actually giddy." 

"Blair, it's amazing. I went there to talk to him, after all this time, because I wanted to talk to him about . . ." /How do I say, about us?/ "About some stuff. I hadn't seen him in years. He was shot down over the Irian Jaya, and he lived with . . . the Yani?" 

"Yali." 

"Yali. Anyway, Chief, he's a sentinel." 

"He can't be." 

"Is." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes. And Chief, it just took me by surprise. He . . . he thinks it's a miracle. He . . . he's dedicated himself to a life of seclusion, so he can . . . enjoy it." Blair couldn't help but smile. "Chief, he has this . . . glow. He's in so much . . . peace. I . . . I can't imagine it. He doesn't zone out like I do. He just goes from one sensation to the next." 

"Another sentinel? In a monastery?" 

"But don't you get it, Chief? It's a miracle to him. He sees it as a gift." 

"Don't you, Jim?" 

"Well, no, I mean, sometimes it's a pain in the ass, the stench of the sewer, the scrape of brake pads, always intruding" he looked into Blair's eyes, "into their private lives." Blair smiled again. Jim, he was always looking out for him. Always the big brother. 

"So what's with the flower?" 

"It's lilac." 

"I know it's lilac, Jim." 

"It was blooming at the monastery. Tom picked it for me. Told me to take it home so I could take some of the monastery back with me." 

Blair couldn't believe what he was hearing, what he was seeing. Jim was so excited. Something about this Tom person struck a chord with him. /God, Jim, if you would only have me, I'd be on top of the world!/ Blair spent the next hour, questioning him, being his guide over the encounter, picking out details and meanings. Jim wanted to know more about monasticism to see if it was something about life in seclusion that allowed Tom to avoid zone-outs. Blair was becoming more excited, too. This was another case study for his thesis. A second sentinel. Suddenly, without realizing it, he had grabbed his jacket. 

"Where . . . where are you going?" Jim asked at a loss. 

"I've got to find Jack." 

"Jack?" 

"I can't wait to tell him about this." 

"But . . . what about me?" 

"Huh?" Blair looked back at him and saw that lost, confused expression in Jim's blue eyes that just dug at his soul. /Oh, Jim./ Blair turned around, put his jacket down. "I'm sorry." 

Jim sealed his lips with that tight smile, of politely fighting back an insult. "No, Chief. Go to him. We've talked about it enough. Besides, Jack probably knows more about it than I do." 

"You're too hard on yourself." 

"Am I?" Jim looked at Blair hard. "Go to him. It's not right for me to hold you back. We aren't lovers." 

"Yeah, but Jim, I'm your guide." He approached Jim, lifted his hand to Jim's meaty shoulder. "And you're my best friend." 

"Thanks, Chief." He watched Blair set his jacket down, then move into the kitchen to fix dinner. "Chief, I haven't said this, but I like Jack. A lot. The two of you are good together. I hope you guys can stick with it." Blair was surprised by this. Jim took the opportunity to take Tom's advice. He came up to Blair, took is face in his hands. "Blair, I love you." The tone was too strong, confessed too much, but Jim didn't stop. "For a while there, our friendship was so deep that I never thought it could get deeper, and for a while there, I was jealous as hell of Jack. But he is so right for you. And now, there's nothing that I want to see more than that you're happy. I know this is new for you, this man thing. I just want you to know that I don't think any less of you. If anything, I think more of you for taking steps I wouldn't have the guts to take. So I'm okay. I'm okay with you, and with Jack. I have a lot to think about. Go to him." Then he kissed Blair on the forehead, and released him. 

* * *

The bomb exploded at 9 a.m., just as Jim and Blair were walking into the station together. Simon sent them both on the scene. 

The alley was tight with other officers, but Jim was trying to block them out. Blair followed behind him, his voice guiding him like a line, pulling out what he smelled, what he heard, what he saw. Neither of them noticed the young man with the serene face and black eyes, watching them from behind the flapping police tape. He had seen Jim Ellison enter the scene, and had heard the other officers say his name. /Target: Identified./ Marshall examined his truck for every detail, ready to follow it. 

Blair noticed Jim stop. "Smell anything unusual, big guy?" 

"Something's wrong here, Chief." 

"What is it?" 

"There's nothing here." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, this is so cut and dry. A simple bomb, in a dumpster. No note. No motive." 

"You're not thinking Atlanta are you?" 

"Yeah, Chief. It's like someone is trying to get us all here, in one place, then blast us all." 

"Where's it at?" Blair was starting to panic. "Can you smell it?" 

"All I can smell is the residue that's everywhere." 

"Can you hear it?" 

"Hey, hey, hey," he grabbed Blair by the shoulders. "Calm down. Okay? Now watch me. Make sure I don't zone out." Jim listened, sorting out the voices of the detectives, the voices of the spectators. Pencils. Wind. Heartbeats. Wait. Something tiny. Tapping. Fast paced, but even. He listened harder. Falling deeper and deeper. The tapping. The thumping. Like a metronome. Not human. Marshall watched him just as intently. 

Suddenly Jim howled out and grabbed his ears as the high-pitched screech tore at his eardrums, like metal against metal, fingernails on chalkboards. Blair grabbed at his elbow. "Where Jim?" he whispered. Jim just pointed to the edge of a trash can, underneath a lid that leaned against the brick wall. Blair slowly, carefully approached. Jim wanted to say No but couldn't, and instead pulled him back. "Get the others to do it," he managed to say. Blair called for the others, and finally, someone on the bomb squad approached with a long pole. Reaching, he flipped the lid to the ground. 

And started laughing. 

Blair approached to see what was so funny. There, in the corner between the trash can and the brick wall, was a tiny fluff of gray hair. Blair bent down, and when Jim heard the hiss, knew he was in for a great deal of ribbing back at the bullpen. But when Blair turned around with the tiny gray kitten in his hands, and the sweet innocent expression on his face, so angelic and boy-like, Jim knew why he kept falling in love with this grad student, again and again. Blair laughed sweetly as the tiny kitten hid its face in the crook of his elbow, shivering. When he looked up at Jim, he had already armed himself with his best pleading face, cocked a little to the side. 

"Oh no, Sandburg. No." 

"Come on, Big Guy. Look at him." 

"No. I hate cats." 

"But it's just a baby." 

"Animal Control will find a home for it." 

"But what if they can't? They'll put it to sleep." 

"Then it will be out of its misery." 

"How can you be, like, so cold?" 

"Get away from me with that thing. You know I'm allergic to them." 

"Jim?" 

"No. And that's final." 

"Fine. I've got another man I can use this on." 

"Where are you going?" 

"I'm going to put him in the truck." 

"Oh no you're not. I don't want cat hair in my truck." 

"Then hurry up." 

Finally, Jim agreed to drive the kitten and Blair to the university to hand the little animal to Jack. All the while, he kept his window rolled down, but he could still feel his eyes tearing up and his nose starting to run. Blair could tell that the sentinel was suffering, and it endeared him even more. This grump still had a soft spot, at least enough to suffer until he got Blair and the kitten to the university. 

"Won't work, Sandburg." 

"What?" 

"Flooding the cab with pheremones." 

"Touchy." Then he added, "At least you can smell those." He couldn't help laughing when Jim sneezed. 

Jim's battle with his sinuses was enough to distract him from the car following closely behind. Once they had parked, Jim ran in first to find a bathroom where he could blow his nose. Blair followed after him, more interested in finding Jack. 

Marshall parked his car, then grabbed the case behind him. Casually, he carried the case into the music hall. /People will think I just have an instrument./ Pretending that he knew what he was doing, he found a stairwell and started climbing. Once on the roof, he looked down at the entrance where Jim and Blair had so recently gone in. It was at an odd angle. He could see the steps, but he couldn't see the door. Marshal would wait for them both. It would be a two-for-one special. 

After a few moments, Jim needed some air. The restroom, the only one he knew of in the building where Blair worked, was quite some distance from where he had parked the truck. As he walked toward the door, he noticed daylight and a second door onto the quadrangle. Jim headed for it, instead. It was enough; he just need air to clear his sinuses. Jim opened the door, unseen by anyone, and he took a deep breath. His sinuses were clearing. He took another deep breath, and froze. He recognized that smell. Gun oil. Searching the area with a fast glance, he felt something jab his ribs. Jim looked down, opened his jacket, and in doing so, smelled his own gun in its holster. /Oh, must be mine./ 

Inside the building, Blair called out as he stepped into the hallway. "Hey Jim?" Jack followed after him. 

"Do you think he'll be okay in your office?" Jack asked. 

"How much damage could the little thing do?" 

"I can't believe I let you talk me into taking this thing." 

"I tried to get Jim to let me keep it." 

"I take it I'm the easy one." 

"Well, yeah. Jim sure wasn't budging." 

"I guess he doesn't have as much to lose," Jack said, grabbing Blair by the elbow and pulling him into his arms. Jack kissed him deeply, in the hallway. "And he doesn't have as much to gain, love." 

"Hmm. Anyway, it'll make you think twice before you run off on some six-month trip to God only knows where." 

"Hey," Jack started in a soft, serious voice as he brushed his hand through his lover's hair. "I'm not going anywhere, love. You're reason enough for me to stay a long, long time." 

Blair felt a hot rush in his chest, and he kissed him back, saying, "Come on, Jim must be waiting for me." Then he stepped outside, onto the concrete steps. Turning, he said, as if to the door in a voice for Jim to hear, "Hey, Jim?" 

Jack bounded out of the doorway, and just as he stepped down, he looked at Blair one last time before his face turned a sudden red, his hair blown forward as if by a wind. Spattered by blood on his face, Blair didn't have the strength to cry out as his lover collapsed on the steps in front of him. His knees started to fail him, to buckle, and as they did, the fist slammed into his chest, a hot searing. 

Jim heard Blair's call the first time, and he slowly walked toward his truck. Then the crack of gun fire. When he heard Blair's scream, his heart stopped, and he couldn't get his heavy body to run fast enough as his ears were washed in heartbreaking sobs. Jim turned the corner, and he couldn't believe what he saw. Blair was humped over a very still Jack. As hard as he could, he couldn't hear Jack's heartbeat. And Blair's was getting weaker. Jim rushed to his truck to find his cell phone, dialing for backup and an ambulance as he scrambled for Blair. 

His Blair was lying across Jack's back, and Jim could see where the bullet had exited his shoulder. "Blair," Jim pulled him off of Jack, but Blair fought him, grasping for his lover. "Come on, Chief, you've got to sit up." Jim ripped Blair's shirt, balled it up, and pressed it to his chest. There was still the exit wound to consider, but Blair was fighting him. Jim needed Jack's shirt. Without thinking, he rolled Jack onto his back. 

When Blair saw the wound on Jack's face, where the bullet had pierced through, he retched up blood onto Jim's chest, then fainted. Alone, with Blair unconscious, Jack dead on the ground beside him, Jim held his guide tight between the two wounds and prayed the ambulance would get here, soon. 

* * *

Concluded in part three.


	3. Chapter 3

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Loving You Less Than Life

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Disclaimer and notes can be found in part one. 

* * *

Loving You Less Than Life -- part three  
By Kadru 

Marshall didn't wait to see if he had killed Jim Ellison. He had mere seconds to get downstairs, away from the roof, and stow his gun away. The expression of peace was even more evident, more precise. /This is really helping,/ Marshall thought. /I feel better already./ 

* * *

Jack McClairy was declared D.O.A. Blair remained in surgery for most of the day. The bullet had missed his major arteries but had pierced his lung. Jim waited, pacing with Simon at his side. Finally, the doctor entered the waiting room. Jim almost knocked him over with questions. "Ellison, please," the doctor started. "He's going to live." 

"What room?" 

"218." 

Jim bolted away, almost hitting a nurse, who called out to him, "Hey! You can't go in there." 

"Nurse," the doctor called with an exhausted voice. "Leave him alone." 

"But, doctor, that's ICU." 

"I know that." Then he looked at Simon. "When either of those men come in here, the other won't leave. Besides," he said on his way out, "Ellison seems to know this hospital better than I do." 

* * *

Around four in the morning, Blair woke with a start. There were tubes running across his face and into his arms. His chest throbbed. 

Jim had been sitting beside him, waiting. The constant beep of his heart monitor had acted as a mantra, hypnotizing him almost. But Blair's cry startled him. The detective quickly scrambled from the chair to Blair's bedside, sitting down on the mattress just as Blair was raising himself up. 

"Jack!" 

Jim caught Blair, careful of his wound. "Calm down, Chief." 

"Jack!" His second cry was more defeated, as his mind remembered the sight of Jack's instant death. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his third cry was almost hoarse. "Jack." He collapsed onto Jim's chest. 

"I'm here, Chief. I'm here. I'm not going to leave you." 

But Blair couldn't be consoled. With his good arm, he grabbed at the cloth on the back of Jim's shirt, bunching it in his fingers as he cried out again in a choking sob, "Jack!" 

* * *

Marshall watched the news reports, but the disappointment wasn't evident on his face. Quietly, he oiled his gun. He could catch Jim Ellison at the hospital, or he could wait. Most of the men in prison with him were chumps who didn't have any sense of patience. Marshall had all the time in the world. He would wait, and watch, like a cold reptile watching a fast-moving bird. /That bird will have to rest some time./ 

* * *

Blair woke from his deep sleep. Looking around, he realized they had moved him out of ICU. And he was alone. Taking as deep a breath as his wounded lungs would let him, Blair recognized the heavy fragrant scent, and turning to his left, he saw the huge arrangement of lilacs in a glass vase. There was a hand-written note at the base. Carefully, Blair picked it up. 

"I've gone to look for him. Will be back to see you soon. I love you. Jim." 

The flowers were huge. /How did Jim have time to get them?/ Blair laid the card down. He looked around him. There were other flowers there. Once the nurse came in, Blair asked her to read the cards to him. "Boy, those lilacs sure can stink up a room," she said. One from Simon. One from the detectives in the bullpen. Naomi. Carolyn. Some from other professors. One from his students. The nurse left him, and Blair looked around again. The room was so empty. 

He was all alone. And Jack wasn't coming back. He closed his eyes tight and rolled into a fetal curl on his bed. Blair could still hear his voice, his Australian accent calling him "love." He was gone. He'd never feel him tug at him in the night, would never have him drag him onto the dance floor, or feed him sushi. His constant jokes, his energy, his stories of the jungles. /God, he was gone./ And with his eyes closed, he could still see it, Jack, that handsome, incredible face and those bright green eyes and that devil-may-care smile, in the sunlight, on the university steps, as the bullet buckled his face. 

* * *

Jim came into the room. Blair was sitting up, staring forward. There was a lunch tray beside him, untouched. Blair saw him, but the blank expression on his face didn't change. "Hiya, Chief," Jim said as he sat down beside him. "How's the shoulder?" 

"It hurts." 

"Doc says you can come home tomorrow." 

"That's good, I guess." 

"I miss you, for what it's worth." 

"Thanks, Jim." 

"One of your students took the kitten--" 

"I don't give a damn about the kitten." 

"Oh, okay." Jim looked at his hands. "I've spent all morning at the site. When you get back home, you can help me sort out the details." 

"Okay." 

"They recovered the bullets. We're running a trace on them now, to see if they match any used at another crime site." 

"How long?" 

"Not sure. Not long, I hope." They both remained silent for a while. "You need to eat something, Chief." 

"I'm not hungry." 

"No, I'd expect not. Still, you need to get it down." Jim smiled a tight-lipped smile before adding, "It may be hospital food, but it's still better than anything I could cook for you." Still, Blair didn't say anything. Jim waited a few moments, trying to think of a way to bring up the next sentence. "Uhm, Blair, uh, do you know if Jack had any next of kin?" 

"I doubt it. He said he was an orphan. He said--" Blair stopped, hearing Jack's voice, /You're all I've got in the world, love, and that's good enough for me./ Tears welled up in his eyes. 

"Ah, jeez, guy, I didn't mean to upset you." Jim placed his hand on his good shoulder. "It can wait." 

Blair squeezed Jim's hand. "Thanks." 

"If you want, Carolyn and I bought this plot big enough for us and two kids." 

Blair raised an eyebrow, and Jim answered him. "Being a cop, we thought that was a good idea. Don't think I'll be using it. Not all of it, at least. If you . . . want him to be near, you can have it. We can work something out later--" 

"Jim, that's good of you, man, but I just can't think about it right now, okay?" 

"It's okay, Chief. I'm not going anywhere." 

* * *

A few days after getting Blair back to the loft, Jim got a call from Simon. "Yeah, Simon, what is it?" 

"There's been a break. They were able to match the bullets to those used in a crime about three years ago in Spokane. The gun was sold in auction by the Spokane Police last year, and is registered to a dealer here in town. I've sent some of the boys to drag him in." 

"I'll be right over." 

"What is it?" Blair asked from the couch. 

"They've traced the bullets." 

Blair stood up and started looking for his shoes. "I'm going with you." 

"No, you're not. You're gonna sit right there and re-coup." 

"The hell I am." Jim started to say something, and Blair stopped him with a pointed finger and a look of rage. "You are not going to keep me from this. Do you understand?" 

"Fine. Fine." Jim raised up his hands. "Just keep your cool, all right? Simon already won't let me work on this case, so he's doing me a favor by telling me this much. I won't let you mess this up by being too close or over reacting." 

* * *

Aigle sat at the bar, watching the television. They were searching for him, even though they didn't know who he was. They talked about the Rainier University sniper, like he was another nutcase in a Texas tower. Dull newscasters kept comparing their actions. He continued to drink his beer and eat his sandwich. After a while, he noticed someone sitting beside him. He looked askance, and recognized the face. The stranger was one of his contacts and had sold him parts for the bomb. 

"Yeah, what?" 

"I heard they took Wilson in for questioning." 

"What do I care?" 

"Didn't you buy a rifle from him?" 

"What business it is of yours?" 

"Hey, Marshall, just giving you fair warning. I bought some guns from Wilson, too. If he fesses up about all the guns he sold to us, we might need to put some distance between us and Cascade." 

"He won't talk. He knows one of us will kill him if he does." 

"My source at the station says he was brought in because he sold the gun that college sniper used." 

Marshall hid his apprehension behind his mask. "So?" 

"So, my source says one of those college dudes was working with the cops. They've got the cop-killer fever down there, and it ain't going so well for Wilson. Those guys are giving him hell. I'm not so sure that little weasel can hold out. So," Aigle's contact said in a rush, realizing how little he liked Marshall after all, "I'm on my way out of town for a while. Saw you sitting there, thought I'd build up some karma points." He left Aigle chewing calmly on his sandwich. 

But inside, Aigle knew damn well that Wilson wasn't going to take any heat for him. He had to finish Jim Ellison off as soon as possible and get the hell out of Dodge. 

* * *

Jim made most of the funeral arrangements for Blair. Blair just nodded and gave little comment. Jack was buried in the plot which Jim and Carolyn were once going to use. Simon and Jim worked with Jack's insurance to cover the costs, and in the end, the funeral was arranged. Blair thought that maybe a cremation might be more appropriate, but seeing as how he couldn't think of where to scatter Jack's ashes except in some jungle, he just followed along with Jim. Jim set the date for Saturday so they could recover that Sunday. 

Blair's thoughts were on the slimy gun dealer. He wouldn't talk. Was too scared one of his customers would come after him. The most they could hold him on was accessory to murder, withholding information, and the illegal sale of a fire arm. 

The weather at the funeral was typical Northwest fare -- hazy, cold, wet -- a mist that made umbrellas worthless. Blair heard the words but didn't care. Jack was an atheist and didn't care one way or the other. His body was worthless to Jack now. Jack didn't care what happened to it. 

But Jim wouldn't leave his side. Silent, Blair barely knew Jim was there except for his physical presence, the constant arm around his waist, the shoulder to lean on. Standing there, in the cold mist, he realized how much he had taken Jim for granted. He was always there, always protecting him. /Was this what it meant to have a best friend?/ Blair couldn't answer that. He had never stayed put in one place long enough to find out. After the eulogy, Blair turned slightly and leaned his face against Jim's chest. /Jim, if only you were gay. I'd have jumped into bed with you instead of Jack. You were the one I wanted. And I wouldn't feel like this right now./ Jim didn't move much, just tightened his hold on Blair's waist, but kept his other arm by his side. 

* * *

That Sunday, Jim and Blair went for lunch at one of the local diners. Blair usually did the grocery shopping, and these past few weeks had finished off their supplies. Jim promised to buy groceries that afternoon if Blair promised to go with him to get lunch. 

Lunch had been silent. Blair had started using his arm, and he was surprised that it wasn't as sore as he thought it should be. As Jim drove back to the loft to drop Blair off, his mind was wandering, looking around from building to building. 

Then he saw it, that tell-tale glint of sunlight against gunmetal, the same reliable flash that had saved their lives so many times. Jim slammed on the brakes, pulling the truck into a tight parking space before Blair could even register what was happening. "Whoa, Jim, what the hell are you doing?" 

Jim didn't answer as he reached across Blair and pulled his gun out of the glove compartment. 

"Jim, where are you going?" 

"Check something out. You sit right here." 

Blair hopped out of the truck. "Sandburg, what did I just say?" 

"I'm still your guide, Jim," Blair said in a huff, "so get over it." 

He followed Jim as he slid down the sidewalk with his back against the wall. They were only a block from the loft, and Jim had spotted the gleam on the roof of one of the buildings across the street from their home. He wasn't sure if the gunman had seen them. He wasn't even sure if it was a gunman he had spotted. After Jack, he wasn't taking any chances. 

Blair kept his cool as he followed Jim into a building and up the four flights of stairs to the roof. Jim stopped at the metal door leading out, to listen, to smell. Gun oil. He couldn't hear anything, but he could smell gun oil. And it might be his gun again, but this time, Jim wasn't taking that gamble. When Blair siddled up on his left, Jim pushed him back against the wall. He took a deep breath, then shoved aside the door. 

Instinctively he took aim as he dropped to one knee. Then his eyes focused on the dark shape of Marshall Aigle, waiting patiently like a fisherman. He was watching their loft. /Did he even see them leave?/ 

"Freeze! Police!" Jim shouted. 

Marshall's body came alive as if electrocuted. Turning swiftly, he knew he had one shot, raising his rifle to fire. 

Jim pulled the trigger. His bullet struck Marshall in the left shoulder, spinning him back, but he didn't drop his rifle. Jim aimed again, his vision tunneling down until he saw only the side of the rifle as he fired a second blast. Marshall felt his heart jump as the rifle leapt from his hands. 

Jim, still crouching, still holding his aim steady, approached Aigle. "Chief, run down and call for back up." 

Blair ignored him, waiting for Jim to come close enough to disarm Aigle. Once he saw Jim kick the rifle aside, he stepped towards them. 

"Sandburg, call for back up." 

Still, Blair ignored him. Finally he said, "Are you the bastard that shot me?" 

"Fuck you," Aigle threw back. 

"Chief, don't you fuck this up! Get downstairs, goddamn it, and call for back up!" Jim could barely hide the panic in his voice, and it was coming out as rage. 

"Are you the goddamn bastard?" 

Jim reached out for Blair and caught him by the scruff of his shirt. "Blair, goddamn it--" 

Aigle saw his moment. Leaping to his feet, he dealt Jim a swift kick to the groin, then a sharp cuff with his elbow across his jaw. Stepping back, Blair felt his calves scrape against the low brick edge of the roof. As Jim fell, Aigle turned on Blair, taking a swing. 

Blair watched it happen, and his only thought was at how calm he felt. As he saw Aigle's arm arc toward him, Blair ducked, grabbing Aigle by the collar of his shirt and pulling him in the direction of the swing. Before he realized it, Aigle's off-balanced body was circling toward the edge of the roof, past Blair, catching the edge at his shin and going over. It happened so fast, and was so unexpected, that Blair found himself going over with him. 

Jim had only seconds to react. Pulling himself off of the ground and dropping his gun, he snatched out into space and grabbed Blair's ankles as they both went over. He dug his knees into the corner where the brick edge met the roof and let out a grunt as he felt his body snatch under the strain of both men's weights. 

Carefully, Jim began pulling them up, one handful at a time. 

Blair didn't seem to care. He only stared down into Marshall's calm black eyes. Marshall hung on by one arm, as Blair held him by both his hands. His wounded shoulder was screaming in pain. 

"Pull me up, pig," he taunted. "You have to do it. You have to." 

"You shot my lover." 

Marshall was taken aback for a second. "Your lover? What? Are you a fucking faggot?" 

Blair's voice coldly replied, "I never said my lover was a man." 

For the first time, Marshall's mask of serenity cracked. He felt he needed to go on the offensive. "You're a fucking, goddamn faggot." 

"Yeah, I'm a fucking faggot, and you killed my lover!" 

"A fucking faggot cop!" 

"But I'm not a cop," Blair said in a cold, hateful voice. 

Marshall recognized it. 

And so did Jim. He watched, as he grabbed Blair around the waist, then screamed out, "Blair! No!" 

Blair's fingers opened up slowly, purposefully, like a fan. Marshall's mask broke into horror as he felt his fingers slide down Blair's palm, and then finally, just the brush of fingertips against each other. 

Blair felt nothing, nothing, as he watch Marshall's body sink like a stone, turning slightly, until his back struck the concrete with a crack. 

Jim grabbed Blair by the rim of his jeans, and in one furious tug, hefted him over the edge of the roof, almost flinging him onto the tarpaper. Jim's rage was exploding as he pulled back his arm, hovering over Blair as he lay sprawled on his back. His knuckles were white as he squeezed his hand into a tight fist, his cheeks huffing, holding his arm ready to beat him to a pulp. He wanted to hit him so bad. Wanted to beat the living hell out of him. /Hit him hit him hit him!/ And Blair's remorseless expression didn't do much to calm him. 

But he couldn't hit him. Jim stormed away, then came on Blair as he was standing up, jerking at his shirt and pulling him onto his toes. "What the hell did you do? . . . . Huh? . . . Answer me!" 

Blair didn't answer, couldn't really as Jim shook him so hard, harder than he'd ever been shaken before. 

"You fucking killed a man," he whispered between clenched teeth. 

"He killed Jack!" Blair shouted back at him, feeling his own rage. 

"You don't know that!" Jim flung him away, throwing him onto his back. "What proof have you got?" 

"I knew it. I could see it in his eyes!" Blair jumped to his feet. "He almost killed you there!" 

"We stop crime!" Jim pushed him away. "We don't commit them." Jim paced. "And if that guy down there turns out to be somebody else, you're going down for it! Do you here me! You're going down! If I have to break you myself, I'm gonna do it!" 

Blair's eyes changed. Slight, but perceptible. In his mind, he had no thoughts of Aigle. No concerns about his own future. But the thought, that Jim would prosecute him, Jim, his best friend, that he would be the one, and that Jim wanted to do it -- Blair felt that sting. And the sting grew into a sharp pain, then a deep ache. He felt his lungs grow weak and start shaking his chest. 

And Jim, his rage so blinding, watched Blair's calm face crumble, the muscles in his cheeks and temples quiver and twitch, his knees shake. Blair's voice was almost a whimper as he fell, then dropped his head between his knees. 

Blair wasn't sure where the sobs were coming from. He felt them, so real and racking. He had been crying for Jack for weeks, and he honestly didn't think he had anything left to work out. As for himself, this threat to his future, he didn't feel any anguish, not a shred of guilt or fear. His soul had no concern for it's own safety. He had lost everything when he lost Jack. Or so he had thought. Now, he was staring down at the ugly fact that he had just broken the only other thing that mattered to him. 

His friendship with Jim. 

Jim watched, helpless, as he saw Blair crumple. In frustration, he paced again and again, hearing Blair weep until he couldn't stand it any longer. /Blair's not thinking rationally. He's still wounded, physically, psychologically, and emotionally./ Jim could only hope, pray, that the gunman lying dead on the sidewalk was indeed the university sniper, because if he was, Jim could write this off as fate, as the karma Blair always prattled on about. Blair was the gunman's mistakes coming back to punish him. 

Leaning over him, Jim picked Blair up and pulled him to his chest. Blair started babbling, "Jim, I don't . . . . I didn't mean to . . . . not to you." 

"Shh, Blair, enough--" 

"I can't lose you, too, man." 

Blair's words bit Jim hard, enough for him to literally contract his stomach and his eyes grow wet. "Come on, Chief. Let's get this scum off the sidewalk and see who he really is." 

* * *

When the others got to the scene, Blair stepped to the side, sitting on the sidewalk as the paramedics checked him out, then left him alone to his silence. Jim stood by his side as Simon came over. 

"What the hell happened up there?" 

"I was about to take him downstairs. He caught me off guard, kicked me where it hurts and got me right on the chin. Then he turned on Sandburg. Sandburg ducked and they both lost their balance and fell over. I grabbed Blair by the ankles and Blair had the gunman." 

Blair looked up at Jim, and they made eye contact. /Moment of truth. Moment of lies./ "Blair . . . Blair couldn't hold him." 

"Is that what happened, Sandburg?" 

Blair looked over at Simon. Finally he said, "Simon, ask me tomorrow. Everything's a blur right now. The past two weeks have all been a blur." Then he hung his head down, trying to piece together reality and lie. 

"Well," Simon began, "for preliminaries, the serial numbers on the rifle match those on the registration and on the records that we have for the Spokane crime scene. We have his driver's license, and one of the guys recognizes him from the parole office. We've got some folks going to the address on his driver's license. If that turns out to be a dead address, we'll find out more from the parole records." Then Simon looked down at Blair. "Jim, he doesn't look too good. Take him inside and we'll come get you when we need you." 

When Jim reached for his guide, Blair waved him off. "I'm going for a walk." 

"A walk?" 

"Don't look so panicked. I'm not running away. I just need to clear my head, get everything back together again." 

Jim followed after him, touching his shoulder, "Hey Chief, before you go." Blair turned around, and Jim pulled him into a reluctant hug. "I'm sorry about what I said up there. I just lost my temper." 

"Jim, I betrayed you up there." 

"I . . . I know, but . . . I . . . . don't want to lose you, either." 

* * *

When Blair finally stepped into the loft, it was late at night. His mind was numb, and he finally understood the Emily Dickinson poem, "After great pain, a formal feeling comes." He had been walking the neighborhood for hours, hoping to exhaust himself enough to sleep. 

When he shut the door behind him, he noticed the lights were dim, yet he could still see Jim's silhouette at the table. There, on the table beside him, was a large bottle of vodka chilling in a bowl of ice. Jim didn't say anything as he downed a shot of vodka and gently set the glass down. "Jim," Blair said in an tired whisper, "you know alcohol messes with your senses." 

"I hope so." His speech was slurred. "I hope it kills all of them." 

Blair couldn't argue with him. In fact, that's what he wanted, to feel as numb as his soul. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Jim was drinking because of him, because he had betrayed him so badly. He walked behind him, into the kitchen, and came back with his own glass. After Blair had downed his first shot, Jim said to him, "Doesn't help much." 

"The booze?" 

"Revenge." 

Blair didn't want to think about it. He knew sooner or later he'd have to deal with the thought that he had killed a man in cold blood. /What if he hadn't been Jack's killer?/ Then he would have killed an innocent man. He took another shot of vodka, and Jim joined him. 

After a few moments of silence, Jim said in a weak voice, "I'm sorry." 

"Jim, I don't mean this to sound ugly, and I know you mean well, but if another goddamn person tells me they're sorry, I'm gonna scream." 

"Very well," Jim said, then drained his glass. "I. . ." --he had trouble pronouncing the word-- "a-pol-ogize." 

"Jim," Blair said with a short tone, "what are you talking about?" 

"I'm some Blessed Protector, aren't I?" 

"Oh, big guy, don't do this. This is bad enough as it is." 

"No . . . Blair . . . you don't understand." 

"Understand what?" 

"I just heard from the station." 

Blair froze. 

"They've been going through the evidence, and the guy -- Aigle -- he had all this stuff about me. Newspaper articles. And he had some of the parts for the bomb that went off in the alley that same day. They think he followed us to the school. And from the angle of his shot from the roof of the music department, he couldn't have known it was Jack." 

"What are you saying?" 

"I'm saying, damnit," Jim said, "that Aigle was trying to kill me, not Jack. He thought Jack was me." Jim squeezed the corners of his eyes to stop from tearing up. "He was shooting for me, and he got Jack instead." 

Blair couldn't say anything, didn't know what to say. He filled his glass with vodka and drained it in one gulp. 

"And I wanted you and Jack to be together. I had just gotten used to the idea, and he made you happy, the way I wanted you to be happy, and then he got killed, because of me. Blair, Blair, I didn't want you to be unhappy. I never wanted to hurt you. Please." Jim's blue eyes were breaking Blair's heart, but he was already at the point of exhaustion, had already begun to grow numb from aching for Jack. The thought of Jim, burying himself in guilt for this, twisted his soul all over again. This was his friend, and he knew Jim loved him, knew he wanted to protect him and be the big brother, always. 

"Jim. Jim, don't do this to me." That wasn't what Blair needed to say, he realized afterwards, as Jim looked away from him, covering his face. Blair reached out for him. "No, that's not how I meant it. I mean, I appreciate that you want to protect me, but this guy killed Jack. He killed Jack, not you." 

"But Jack would still be alive." 

"Oh yeah, well you would have been dead. Do you think that would have done me any good, if you were dead?" 

Jim dropped his hands away, and his cheeks were wet and shiny. 

"Do you?" Blair asked again. "Do you think I wouldn't be just as upset and hurt if you were dead?" 

"But you loved Jack." 

"I did love Jack." His voice started to crack. "With all of my heart I loved Jack. I still love him." 

"Chief, I'd have given my life for Jack, to see you happy." 

"Jim, stop it. I just can't deal with this right now." Blair ran his shaking hands through his long hair. "I know you feel shitty right now. I feel pretty shitty right now, too. And I just . . . I just killed a man, today, and not in self defense either. I just flat out murdered somebody today, and . . ." 

"And?" 

"And, goddamn it, I don't feel a damn bit of guilt about it and that's just fucking wrong." Blair poured another vodka. He wasn't used to it, and it was starting to make his head spin, but he didn't care. "I'm sorry." He shook his head, his long curls tangling in his face. Jim brushed them away, but Blair didn't seem to notice because he started rambling, "So don't just say that it would have been better for me if you had died instead of Jack. I would have been just as lost if you had died. Jim, I love you, man. You're not, like, some guy I know. You're like my brother, and my family, and my best friend." Blair drank more of the vodka. "Hell, either way, I feel like I'd rather be the one who was dead right now." 

"Blair, don't think that." 

"Oh, Jim, I'm not going to kill myself." 

"I couldn't bear that, Chief." 

Blair looked at Jim, who was almost at the point of passing out but still overwrought. "Jesus, don't we look pathetic?" 

"Huh?" 

"Drunk. . . . you'd think we were Irish." 

"Sandburg, I am Irish." Then Jim got silent. "I think." He started to laugh, slightly, his eyes still wet. "Hell, I don't even know. I never thought about it before." Blair just smiled. "But Jack, I guess he was Irish." 

"With a name like McClairy, I would hope so." 

"Well, here you go, Jack McClairy," Jim held up his glass of vodka in a toast. "Here's to your wake. Sorry we couldn't have planned a better one." 

Blair was silent for a while, before he lifted his glass to meet Jim's. After swallowing back the liquor, he suddenly realized he was drinking to Jack, was having a wake, not matter how small, for the man who had swept him off his feet. The pain came back, seven-fold, and he laid his head on the table, covering himself with his arms, sobbing wildly. Jim pulled his chair close, draped his heavy arms over his shoulders, and pressed his face in Sandburg's hair, squeezing him hard as he cried. 

* * *

The next morning, Blair woke up sick to his stomach and his head throbbing. He threw back the sheets, not remembering how he got into his tee shirt and boxers. Staring at the ceiling, he thought about last night, about the two of them drinking straight vodka to become numb. Jim would be suffering, too. He had to at least make them some coffee, and coffee might help him, too. /I have to do this. I have to do this./ 

Finally, he pulled his knees across the bed and dropped his feet to the floor. His head was spinning, even before he sat up. /Oh no, this is like so not good./ It was a few more minutes before he talked himself into getting up, at least for Jim. 

Padding softly into the kitchen, Blair looked at the coffee maker. Should he grind fresh beans, or should he just take the pre-ground? The fresh beans would taste better, but could he stand the high-pitched scraping of the coffee grinder? Blair decided his hangover couldn't stand it. 

He placed the filter in the coffee maker. As he poured the coffee into the filter, he heard Jim's voice shout, "Hey! Keep it down in there!" 

Blair couldn't help but smile. Jim's senses were always keyed up when he was hung over. As quietly as he could, he fixed them coffee, and once it was done, poured a cup for Jim. He carefully climbed the stairs with the hot mug, trying not to spill any. 

Jim lay in his bed with a pillow covering his head. "Jim?" 

"Blair, please, be quiet." 

Blair held the coffee close to Jim so that he could smell it, then placed it on the end table. 

"Is that coffee?" 

"Yeah." 

Jim threw the pillow aside, rolled over, and picked up the coffee mug. "Thanks, Chief." 

Blair stood there for a few minutes when suddenly his vision started to blur. He was getting sick and was starting to faint. Jim felt the sudden wave of heat coming off Blair's body before he recognized Blair's shallow breathing and erratic heartbeat. "Come on, Chief. Lie down." 

Blair fumbled for the other side of Jim's bed, then fell in a lump next to him. Jim touched his shoulder. "You all right, Chief?" 

"I'll be fine. Just got a head rush. That's all." 

Jim couldn't help himself. /Maybe I'm still a little drunk./ He wrapped his arms around Blair's waist, spooning behind him. Jim at least had enough forethought to bunch up the sheets behind Blair's back to keep him from feeling his erection. They lay there, for several minutes. Blair didn't mind Jim's contact, feeling comfortable with his heavy arms like a belt around his stomach. And Jim, Jim had wanted to feel Blair's body heat for so long. 

"Jim?" 

"Yeah." 

"I can't do this." 

"Blair, I--" 

"No, I mean, I have to get up." 

"I'm sorry, I just--" 

"Jim, I have to throw up." 

Jim immediately threw back the sheets, taking Blair by the hand and leading him down to the bathroom. It was obvious to them both, then, as Jim helped Blair get down the stairs and across the room, that Jim's boxers were tented and bobbing. "And you need a morning pee," Blair said, trying to make a joke. 

"Yeah, something like that." Jim set Blair down on the floor near the toilet. "Here. Here's a towel." He reached for Blair's thick hair. "Do you need me to hold your hair back?" 

Blair didn't have time to answer. As he was bent over, Jim cursed himself for letting Blair get so drunk, then realized that his senses, so heightened by his hangover, were providing enough punishment. His sense of smell, and his hearing, were torturing him while he helped Blair. If Blair kept up any longer, he would have to share that toilet. 

When Blair came up for air, he reached for Jim's towel, then sputtered, "I feel like a drunk sorority girl with you holding my hair up for me." 

/How can Blair still crack a joke?/ Jim thought. He rubbed his back gently, falling in love with him all over again. 

"Jim?" 

"Yeah, Chief." 

"This is killing me." 

"Oh, Blair--" 

"No, listen to me. This is tearing me apart inside, and I can't take much more of this." Jim couldn't resist pulling Blair to his chest. His words were breaking his heart. But Blair pushed him away. "Listen to me, big guy." Blair caught his breath and ran his hands through his hair. "I just can't deal with knowing you feel guilty--" 

"Chief--" 

"Jim, the thought that you are, like, even remotely responsible for Jack is, like, the farthest thing from my mind right now. Ever. But seeing you like this, tearing yourself up for it, Jim, I just can't take it anymore. Please--" Tears were streaming down Blair's face. "I can't take it, Jim. I've got too much to deal with, and I can't take any more. Please promise me, Jim, that you won't blame yourself, ever again. Please promise me." Jim pulled him tight. "Promise me, Jim. Promise me." 

"I promise, Chief. I promise." 

* * *

A month later, Blair shifted in his sleep as his mind drifted in his dream. He and Jack were back in Seattle, in March, a few weeks before the shooting. They had taken a weekend jaunt, for some surprise Jack wanted to show off. "Where are we going?" Blair asked as Jack parked the car downtown. 

"We have an appointment." 

"Where?" 

"Just hold your horses, love. You'll see." Jack lead Blair to the Columbia Seafirst building, and in his sleep, Blair huddled down, remembering that Jack had arranged with a friend to use his office overlooking Elliott Bay. The guards had been notified, and they had no trouble accessing it. Jack had planned a picnic. Had a basket waiting for him that had been delivered earlier, with a bottle of wine and a rose. The view had been spectacular, and they had spent the day watching the ferries steam back and forth between Seattle and Bainbridge Island. 

But on their way up, as Blair stepped inside the elevator, he had an instant panic attack. "What is it, love?" 

"I . . . I can't stand elevators." 

"Huh?" 

"I was in an elevator once, when it fell. It almost killed me." 

Jack dropped his basket. "Oh, love." He took his hand, tried to pry him away from the wall. "Come here." 

"Jack!" Blair gasped in fright, but Jack just pulled him tight by the waist. 

"Can I have this dance?" 

"What? Are -- Are you crazy?" 

"Do you have any doubts?" Jack flashed his wide grin, then started swaying to imaginary slow music. His hand stroked Blair's hair. "Crazy," he whispered in a melodic voice, "I'm crazy for feeling so lonely. I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue. I knew you'd love me as long as you wanted, and then someday you'd leave for somebody new. Worry. Why do I let myself worry? Wondering what in the world did I do?" Jack pulled back, smiling still, his green eyes in a daze in love with Blair. 

"Your accent is like so mangling Patsy Cline right now." Blair snuggled back to him, still nervous about the lifting sensation under his feet, but feeling much better. 

Jack crooned on. "Oh, crazy. For thinking that my love can hold you. I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying and I'm crazy for loving you. Crazy. For thinking that my love could hold you. I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying and I'm crazy for loving you." 

The elevator stopped. Jack pulled back again. "Love, I'll follow you to the ends of the earth. I'll never leave you. I'll never be gone." But suddenly, the memory changed. The electrical spit of the failing elevator brakes sent sparks raining into the cab. Jack didn't notice as sparks shot through him, saying again, "I'll never leave you. I'll never be gone." The elevator plunged and the red sparks showered down.. 

Jim woke in a panic. He could hear Sandburg's heart beating at a rapid pace, and their loft was flooded with the smell of fear. Jim raced down the stairs in his tee shirt and boxers, opening Blair's door in a rush. Blair was asleep but twisting and shaking in a nightmare, calling out Jack's name. Sinking down on the bed, Jim grabbed at Blair's shoulders. "Blair. Blair, wake up. Wake up, man, it's just a dream." 

Blair's eyes shot open, and he jerked his head back and forth to look around, his hair like a tangled net across his forehead. When he recognized his surroundings, and that Jim was there with him, he took a deep breath. Still, Jack's song was in his ears, soft, deep, raspy in a whisper, singing. His throat tightened so hard he couldn't breathe, and his eyes grew so wet. Blair bolted from the bed and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind. Jim heard the water running, but he knew Blair was trying to cover up his crying. 

Jim sighed heavily, then lifted his thick body. It had been weeks since the last nightmare. At the door of the bathroom, Jim just said, "I'll make us some tea." 

By the time Blair came out of the bathroom, Jim was dropping the tea bags into mugs of hot water. Blair's tee shirt was wet, and his eyes were red. His hair still tangled around his face. He slowly wandered toward Jim, into the kitchen, to stand beside his friend. Jim just placed his wide hand on Blair's small back and began rubbing him softly, not saying a thing. 

"What tea did you make?" 

"Chamomile. That is supposed to help you sleep, isn't it?" 

"Yeah. But I don't think I ever want to sleep again." He leaned his head against Jim's shoulders. "I'm so tired of this." Jim couldn't think of something to say, and remained quiet. Blair continued. "I hate all this crying. I feel like such a baby." 

"You haven't done this in a while," Jim said, his hand remaining on Blair's back. "You're getting better. Besides, you've been dealt a rough hand. You're handling it better than I would." Jim handed him the mug, then led him to the table. Once Blair sat down, Jim stood behind him, rubbing the tension from his shoulders as Blair stared forward, blankly lifting the tea bag up and down in the water. 

"Still, I just wish I could have my nervous breakdown now and get it over with." 

Jim huffed a short laugh and started to kiss Blair on the back of the head. But fear, and caution, kept him back. 

Then Blair added, "I am never falling in love again, man. Never." 

Jim said nothing, but he remembered the time he had said the same thing, when he was 18. He meant it then, and only now was he beginning to open up. He stared at Blair hard. /I would be an ever bigger fool to wait for you./ 

"Good night, Blair." 

"Yeah, good night. Sorry I woke you." 

Blair didn't even see Jim turn away. 

* * *

End Loving You Less Than Life.


End file.
